“You, my man, ought to have many things which you have not got.”

“That is usually the case, isn’t it?

“Take plenty of milk, and don’t smoke.”

“These are days of fasting, and besides we have no cow.”

Once in spring he could not get any sleep; he was longing to have a drink.  There was nothing in the house he could lay his hand on to take to the public-house.  He put on his cap and went out.  He walked along the street up to the house where the priest and the deacon lived together.  The deacon’s harrow stood outside leaning against the hedge.  Prokofy approached, took the harrow upon his shoulder, and walked to an inn kept by a woman, Petrovna.  She might give him a small bottle of vodka for it.  But he had hardly gone a few steps when the deacon came out of his house.  It was already dawn, and he saw that Prokofy was carrying away his harrow.

“Hey, what’s that?” cried the deacon.

The neighbours rushed out from their houses.  Prokofy was seized, brought to the police station, and then sentenced to eleven months’ imprisonment.  It was autumn, and Prokofy had to be transferred to the prison hospital.  He was coughing badly; his chest was heaving from the exertion; and he could not get warm.  Those who were stronger contrived not to shiver; Prokofy on the contrary shivered day and night, as the superintendent would not light the fires in the hospital till November, to save expense.

Prokofy suffered greatly in body, and still more in soul.  He was disgusted with his surroundings, and hated every one—­the deacon, the superintendent who would not light the fires, the guard, and the man who was lying in the bed next to his, and who had a swollen red lip.  He began also to hate the new convict who was brought into hospital.  This convict was Stepan.  He was suffering from some disease on his head, and was transferred to the hospital and put in a bed at Prokofy’s side.  After a time that hatred to Stepan changed, and Prokofy became, on the contrary, extremely fond of him; he delighted in talking to him.  It was only after a talk with Stepan that his anguish would cease for a while.  Stepan always told every one he met about his last murder, and how it had impressed him.

“Far from shrieking, or anything of that kind,” he said to Prokofy, “she did not move.  ‘Kill me!  There I am,’ she said.  ’But it is not my soul you destroy, it is your own.’”

“Well, of course, it is very dreadful to kill.  I had one day to slaughter a sheep, and even that made me half mad.  I have not destroyed any living soul; why then do those villains kill me?  I have done no harm to anybody . . .”

“That will be taken into consideration.”

“By whom?”

“By God, to be sure.”

“I have not seen anything yet showing that God exists, and I don’t believe in Him, brother.  I think when a man dies, grass will grow over the spot, and that is the end of it.”